


Knucklers

by skeletonsmama



Series: casings and coffins [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsmama/pseuds/skeletonsmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s inevitable as Enjolras walks in on his first fuck-up of the week. It’s a Friday, and it’s been 8 days without an accident, which is approximately seven different kinds of amazing and possibly attributable to a potion or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knucklers

It’s inevitable as Enjolras walks in on his first fuck-up of the week. It’s a Friday, and it’s been 8 days without an accident, which is approximately seven different kinds of amazing and possibly attributable to a potion or two.

There’s a lot of smoke and quite a bit of screaming and shouting and _noise_ which is partly Grantaire’s, partly Feuilly’s, and possibly partly Enjolras’s, even if he insisted on denying it later.

Enjolras walks back out of the shop without saying a word, while Grantaire pulls away from where Feuilly’s trying to remove the bronze casing that’s attached itself to Grantaire’s hand. _Don’t let him go, don’t let him go! Is he alright? You can’t let him leave let yet goddammit,_ he thinks, and Feuilly’s shouting at him not to move, which really,  he probably should listen to Feuilly right now considering there is unstable bronze casing wanting to meld itself with his hand. But Enjolras is leaving. Enjolras _who he hasn’t seen since before the riots and should not be going anywhere yet and—_

_“_ Wait! Wait wait wait wait— _fuck,_ Enjolras I need to— _shit_ my _hand!”_  That stops the blonde in his tracks, and there proceeds to be even more screaming from Grantaire as the _thing_ is forcibly ripped off his hand by Feuilly.

Thanks Feuilly.

  _“_ Jesus, was that _really_ necessary?”  Grantaire shakes his hand and tries not to resent Feuilly. Really, really tries.

“Yes.” Feuilly promptly disappears into the back room, presumably to do things with the rest of the bronze. Which means Grantaire is alone with Enjolras.

Great.

Enjolras, who looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, a bruise still fading on his cheek from the riot the day before. Grantaire doesn’t want to think about what injuries he’s hiding underneath the thick padded clothing.

(“It needs to be practical, sensible and an absolute necessity for those in the riots. Can you do it?”

“Yes. Have you forgotten so soon that I am truly a tailor at heart?”)

“Grantaire—,” Enjolras starts, but Grantaire cuts him off with the wave of a hand.

“If you’ve come to berate me Combeferre beat you too it.” He was nice about it, too, unlike whatever vicious tongue lashing Enjolras would inevitably dish out. “If you’re here for anything else, I’m all yours.”

Enjolras’s lips press into a thin line and he leaves, calling a soft “I hope you can come tonight,” over his shoulder.

Grantaire scoffs and heads behind the counter.

***

Grantaire does, of course, come to the meeting.

Despite what he says when he drinks with Feuilly, bemoaning the Musain, swearing to never find drink nor meal nor company there again, he could never bring himself to follow through. He does find though, that at the late point in the evening when he’s had too much wine and is left with too little sense, that Feuilly quietens, unable to join in his lamenting of their leader.

Enjolras was in the beginnings of a speech at the head of the room, bruise looking much better than it had just a few hours ago, probably thanks to one of Jehan’s poultices. He always had been the best at making them, Grantaire thought absently as he sipped at his wine.

He should also probably let Bahorel know his knucklers would take longer than expected, and also why did you _have_ to break them when Cosette was out of town?

Enjolras was still talking. Something about the Spybot’s, the riots, the Sentient Automatons being attacked and destroyed every day in recent months. So Grantaire spoke up.

“Why Enjolras, why do we care? Oh, I know why you care. Don’t babble your opinions to people who already agree; convince the non-believers to believe, the mute to speech, the blind to sight. You will make no difference in rallying the already rallied troops. Are there bruises not enough proof of that already? Convince the unconvinced, Enjolras. Convince me.”

His friends were used to such outbursts, not quite slurred but lacking in the presence of sound mind. Enjolras regarded him carefully, and in the instant Grantaire knew he shouldn’t have spoken, should never have opened his mouth. Enjolras was going to berate him, and he would not be cruel, only cold and vicious and precise, the similarities between him and the Police too numerous to dare mention. They weren’t the same, not in thought. In action, though, one could hardly tell the two apart.

But Enjolras did not continue on the subject, instead requesting Grantaire stayed back for private discussion after the meeting. There went his plan to slink away and lick his wounds.

At least Cosette would be back again soon, damage control in human form at its finest.

Grantaire hissed as his injured hand brushed the table top, cursing Feuilly to the high heavens. They had _bots_ for testing, good lord, why had he let him talk him into being a human guinea pig? He really had to ask Jehan for a poultice at some point, and maybe a pain potion or two, no matter the disapproving look it would earn him.

Enjolras never did have a chance for that private discussion that evening, with Grantaire slumped over his table in exhaustion by the time it finished. Whatever its importance, it could wait until tomorrow.

***

“R, I told you why we needed to yesterday.”

“And I obviously wasn’t listening. Explain again, would you? I’d like to know why my hand is disgustingly blistered, only about to be abused yet again.”

Feuilly sighed and threw a compress at him. “I’m upgrading the knucklers as a favour—“

“Yeah right, _favour._ Between friends, nothing more than friends—”

“As a _favour_ for Bahorel and the bot has no human skin patches left. If you want to explain to Cosette we need to order more because you used the last one on—“

“Alright, alright, you have my hand forever and eternity, till death do us part yada yada. As long as you swear it won’t fuse itself to my skin this time.”

“I stabilised the bronze, so no, it won’t.”

Enjolras walked in on them, again, Grantaire testing out the knucklers and grinning with pleasure as they made the already elegant glide of his fist smoother, quicker and seemingly lighter. It seemed to flit through the air, sending the tins placed in a row on the counter flying before Enjolras could blink.

“Ah, Enjolras graces us with his presence when we are not shouting, for once. A first, I declare! Feuilly, mark it on the calendar, break out the wine! So what brings you here? Surely you’re not trying to continue last night’s discussion, are you? Save it for when I’ve consumed more Ambrosia than I know what to do with.”

“It’s not that – we need more uniforms.” Grantaire’s hand stuttered to a stop. Enjolras was in plain clothes again, the bruise completely gone. A shame, Grantaire thought, as were flaws not the true markings of the martyr?

“I’ll be happy to oblige, but only when Cosette is back. How urgently? I don’t want to leave the old bastard back here on his own, especially considering how terrible he is with customers.” he raises his voice. “You hear that Feuilly? Your face is bad for business!”

A faint “ _Piss off!”_ is said in reply and Grantaire turns back to Enjolras.

“I’m able to have them done by the end of the week. No adjustments?”

Enjolras nearly smiles shaking his head. “Your current design works perfectly.”

Grantaire has to scoff at that, at the clear surprise and the unfortunate approval. “Of course, Enjolras, I was born a tailor and shall die a tailor, no matter how much a tinkerer I am in between. On your way now, your glare and your pretty, pretty profile is scaring away the customers.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh right i have a [tumblr](http://spookyjolras.tumblr.com) come say hi!!


End file.
